Cuba Straits (25 page)

Convinced, he hurried to the steel grating that was flanged like a door, but wider and lower. It was locked.

Strange
 . . . No lock was visible. He rattled the bars and raised the lantern. Yellow light spangled the floor within. Anatol squatted. He pressed an eye to an open square . . . and, for the first time that day, he grinned, and marveled at his sudden good luck.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “So very, very . . . oh my god. You are mine.”

Hypnotic, the graceful lines that greeted him: a duo of Harley-Davidson Sportsters from 1957 . . . possibly ’58. The year was unimportant. Same with the patinas of dust. Same with his mild, fleeting disappointment when he saw there were only two, not three, motorcycles. Otherwise, it was better than finding gold. Step back half a century and these machines were fresh from the showroom floor. Tires were flat, of course, but, my god, even the rubber looked pretty good.

Dazed, he stood. Had someone been maintaining these fine machines? Apparently so. Vernum had lied to him from the start, the freak. After all, the Harleys were here, not hidden in the cemetery west of Havana. Either that or the old woman’s grandson had lied to everyone. That made sense. Figueroa Casanova, as a traitor, would be a shameless liar. Details were unimportant now. The Harleys were his—or would be after he snuck them aboard a troop transport disguised as a cruise liner.

Anatol couldn’t take his eyes off those sweet, sweet classic lines. Pristine, the motorcycles leaned on kickstands with a gangster swagger. Spoke wheels,
Sportster
in italics cast in steel. Chrome everywhere: hydraulic forks and drums, swooping handlebars and headlamps. Fenders and fuel pod on the nearest bike were brilliant jet-stream blue. The other Sportster was red—candy-apple red of a hue that pained his heart and knotted his stomach.

No . . . it was another goddamn cramp.

He grunted, clutched his side, and groaned. Kostikov wasn’t a garrulous man. It was unlike him to speak to leather motorcycle upholstery, but he did, saying, “You would be ruined. I’ll get you out of here before she starts to stink.”

Imelda Casanova had been dead for at least two days, probably longer. He had seen enough corpses to know.

Running was risky, so he hurried through the tunnel, taking short, fast steps, until he was close to the commode and out of danger. His belt buckle required both hands. He placed the lantern, then the pistol, on the floor and closed the curtain. Once he was seated, stomach cramps took charge. Finally, when he was comfortable enough to retrieve the pistol, he had to snake an arm under the curtain to find the damn pistol.

It wasn’t there.

What? The pistol
had
to be there.

His fingers probed until they finally made contact, but what they found wasn’t a Glock 9mm. He snatched the object anyway and held it up to see . . . his stolen wallet.

Shock—rare in KGB veterans, yet his thoughts mired as a voice said in Spanish, “You’re a big target, Kostikov. If you have other weapons, slide them under the curtain. Slowly. I can see you just fine from here.”

The lantern.
Because of the damn lantern, Anatol realized, his silhouette was visible from any angle, yet he was blinded from seeing anything
but
the curtain. Well . . . that and his own shoes where pants were piled around his ankles. Never had he discussed such a predicament with aspiring agents. Bluffing, congenial manipulation, however, were part of daily fieldcraft. Even he could decipher the accent of an American speaking Spanish.

“Ah,” he said, “how are my friends at Langley? Forgive, I am expecting you, but have—how you say?—a case of shits bad.”

The lantern.
He stared at the thing while he hurried to clean himself. Molotov cocktails, homemade incendiaries. He considered the curtain’s fabric: waxed cotton, material used for military tents before noninflammables became popular. A natural accelerant.

The American said, “You don’t have the shits. It’s uranium poisoning.”

Kostikov stiffened for an instant, eyes wide as he listened.

“Vernum Quick, he put a few drops on a sandwich he gave you. He told me all about it. Jerked chicken. Remember what you ate in Jamaica?”

Nauseating, the bile that hiccupped into Anatol’s throat. Whether from the sandwich or the possibility it was true could not be distinguished. “Is lie,” he said. “You think I not know symptoms? What you expect if you torture such a liar as Vernum? Torture”—he used a scolding tone—“is illegal from Geneva Convention. Too bad if international headlines you are in. But only I see body out there, huh? Is possible I might forget. You understand?”

The voice replied, “Guilt has killed better men than Vernum Quick. Cooperate, maybe you’ll live long enough to get to a hospital. Last chance, Kostikov—if you have a weapon, slide it under the curtain.”

Anatol crouched, hoping for movement, a sound. Several seconds passed. “See?” he said. “Is okay. Only my phone I have here. Is how I know Cuban military is on way.” His hand moved to the wall, then down the wall, where he slipped his fingers around the lantern’s wire handle. “Me, I have much time. You, my friend, not so much. Unless a deal we strike, perhaps. Would you like see phone as proof?”

“Reception fifteen feet underground?” The American found that amusing. “Here’s the only deal you’ll get.” An old logbook fell from somewhere and slapped the concrete at Anatol’s feet. A ballpoint pen rolled free from the pages. “You’re going to write a confession. Marta Esteban and her daughters, Sabina and Maribel. You set their house on fire. You killed them. Write it down, then sign it. In Spanish, not Russian. Or English, if it’s any better. What happened to the KGB? You used to be big on language skills.”

The woman and her brats were dead? Finally, some good news. It was something he could work with, but then another cramp caused Anatol to lose focus. Recovery time, a moment to think, was needed. He snatched up the book, asking, “How are names spelled?” Then scribbled them down before adding
Yo mató estas mujeres
—“I killed these females.”

He signed with a false name that was close enough to fool an American and pushed the book under the curtain—but only halfway. As he did, he slipped one foot clear of his pants, then the other. He was free, ready to move.

The lantern. Anatol lifted it, as if to show he was done, while his eyes were fixed, waiting for a hand or the American’s shoes to appear.

“Your Spanish sucks, but the signature looks familiar. Yeah . . . I’ve seen that signature before. For some reason, I hoped you were smarter. Weird, huh? Two grown men and we’re still playing the same goddamn stupid game. Fool’s Mate.”

Where the hell was that voice coming from? Tunnels echo. Anatol’s ears tried to zero in . . . until he realized what the American meant. Another stupid error. The name he’d used was on a false ID in the wallet the American had stolen.

“I left your emergency money,” the voice said. “Think of it as professional courtesy. Now sign the goddamn paper again. Your real name . . .
Anatol
.”

“But I did—” A searing contraction cut off his air. “I did, but you haven’t looked at it closely.” Sweat beaded, slid down his cheeks, as he nudged the logbook another inch into the hall. “I’m sick. You speak of professionalism. You, whose head I own when DGI comes, but I would not give you to fools of DGI. A deal we will make, huh?” His knuckles whitened on the lantern handle. “You are calling General Anatol Kostikov a liar?”

The voice replied, “Stand up, and I’ll make it quick.”

Click-click.
The metallic latching of a pistol hammer always, always signaled an end to negotiations. Anatol winced but wasn’t afraid. Training took over. When cornered, attack. In Ukraine, the ancient land of Cossacks, soldiers entered battle with the same ancient war cry. A guttural howl. That howl carried Anatol into the hall, lantern slashing, but the goddamn curtain came with him, draped over his head like a shroud.

Snap-Snap. Snap.
Three plastic-on-plastic reports. The Russian heard the sounds, but they held no meaning except that each coincided with sudden hammering blows that stabbed him twice in the thigh and once in the kneecap.

Anatol tumbled forward onto the floor, aware in numb consciousness that he was bleeding . . . and that the curtain he could not shed from his body was on fire.

My silent pistol,
he realized.
Bastard shot me with my own weapon.

The humiliation was enough to rally the giant to his feet. “You want fight Kostikov?” He slapped at flames in his hair and roared. “Come, you
pizda
! Like men!”

F
igueroa and his strange friend, Tomlinson, were on their haunches, backs flat against the wall, when the Russian peered into the space where they were hiding and saw the motorcycles.

That was several minutes ago.

An understanding of Russian wasn’t required to know the giant would return. He wanted those Harleys. In Figuerito’s life, only two outsiders had ever seen them and they had lost their lives during their first attempt. Big men, difficult to drag, but it had to be done. He had loved these pretty blue and red machines since childhood. His earliest memory was of someone—his grandmother, possibly—revving the engines as he lay in a crib, or box, too young to talk but old enough to cherish the vibrations and the sleepy odor of exhaust fumes after she had closed the door tight.

His next memory: darkness, alone and thirsty, but too content to make a sound when someone—
definitely
his grandmother—entered the bedroom carrying something small and naked and dead while candles burned. The familiar odor of cigar smoke had accompanied the woman’s sobbing, then her rage.

For years afterward, dozing beside those rumbling engines was Figgy’s favorite way to drift off—and one of the rare recreations the old woman had allowed him.

There was no doubt the Russian would soon return. Even so, the strange gringo sighed a
Whew
of relief when he was gone and whispered, “That was a close one. We should have run for it, man. No matter how drunk some
bandito
happens to be—a pissed-off husband is a better example—hiding is the surest way to get your ass kicked. Next time, you should listen to me.”

Tomlinson got to his feet; peeked through the steel grating, then tested the dead bolt at the top of the frame. “Gad, he almost ripped out the damn screws. What a monster. Just gave it a little shake. See for yourself. Dude, we’ve got to get out of here. He cut the
pinga
off that poor bastard and we both know it. Even with me, superstition only goes so far.”

Figueroa, speaking of his grandmother, replied, “Just because she’s dead doesn’t mean her temper has improved. No blood on the sheets, I understand, but it’s different here. Her spirit can come out of the earth and do all sorts of nasty shit. How long you think she’s been dead?”

Tomlinson took another look through the grating. “Maybe he’s not coming back. Christ, I hope he’s not coming back.”

Figuerito only shrugged. “Did you hear what he said about the motorcycles?”

“He spoke in Russian, for god’s sake. But look—he closed the door, at least, when he left. That’s a good sign. I think I heard another door close, too. It’s what people do when they’re not coming back. A guy that size, what’s he want with a Harley? These old classics”—Tomlinson was already coveting the bike of jet-stream blue—“are half the size of a modern-day hogster.”

Figuerito was becoming irritated. The hippie was always offering advice or lecturing him on the difference between right and wrong. Surprisingly uncooperative, too, when they had pried open a crate stamped
SERVILLETAS SANITARIAS
but which, in fact, contained a pair of old gangster-style Thompson submachine guns.

“We have many bullets,” Figgy whispered. “Here . . . see?” He produced a weathered box of .45 caliber Remingtons. “Show me how the guns work.”

Tomlinson recoiled as if the box contained
mierda
. He didn’t want to hold a machine gun either, although he was impressed with the gold lettering that read
LOYAL BEYOND DEATH
—
FULGENCIO BATISTA
.

“Geezus Christ. General Rivera would sell us both into slavery to get his hands on these babies. A tampon crate is exactly where they belong. Put them away.”

This was all very confusing. “Would you rather use the guns as clubs? They’re heavy enough, I suppose, but he’s a big one, that Russian. It’s safer, I think, to shoot him.”

“Don’t you get it? I’m not shooting anyone. There’s got to be another way out of here.” The hippie, whispering, went to the back wall, where there was an air vent, the wall streaked with mold beneath a low cement ceiling. “You’ve got to get off this killing kick. Seriously, it goes against every moral code and law—even in the minor leagues. Violence just begets more violence.”

Figgy had one of the Thompson machine guns on his lap. “Of course. Why do you think I want to shoot him? The problem is, the old woman didn’t mind me playing with the motorcycles, but I wasn’t allowed to touch these”—he turned the gun upside down—“and shooting is more complicated than I thought.” He pressed a button, gave a yank, and the magazine drum popped free. It resembled the film canister, only thicker. “Hey . . . do the bullets go in here?”

“How the hell would I know?”

Figueroa felt his ears warming, but he concentrated on a lever at the front of the drum. He pushed, pulled, then pried. One side of the drum broke free and clattered like a hubcap when it hit the floor.
“¡Ay, caramba!”
he said, looking inside. “Lots of little spaces in here.” He began inserting cartridges. “Hey . . . they fit. Okay . . . once it’s loaded, then what?”

Tomlinson was at a rack of metal shelves, moving boxes to see what was behind them. He didn’t bother to respond.

Figuerito didn’t like that. They were running out of time. “Brother. You’re from Florida. Everyone in Florida knows about guns. Have you forgotten the
bandito
in the parking lot? And the baseball team, the ones who chased me from Texas? Even in the dugout, their catcher had a—”

Tomlinson threw his hands up but kept his voice down. “I swear to god, I don’t know how to load a Thompson submachine gun. If we could just wiggle through a crawl space or, hell, fire up those bikes, maybe, and . . . Geezus, the damn tires are flat. What next?”

“There’s a bicycle pump,” Figuerito said. “In front of you, next to the red can. But don’t use it all. Later, that’s when I’ll need it. The gasoline, after I shoot him.”

“Does it work?”

“The gasoline? Three years ago, of course. Harley-Davidsons don’t run on diesel. Do they use diesel in the
Estados Unidos
?”

Tomlinson tested the tire pump’s plunger a few times, but his attention drifted to something lying atop a box. A baseball card with sewing needles stuck in it like some type of Santería curse. On the back: Iván Bárbaro Figueroa, Birmingham, Alabama, Tigers, 1980. He’d hit .344 in ’78, but then suffered a hitless two-year slump that, presumably, had ended his career. Tomlinson’s blue eyes moved from the card to Figgy, then back to the card. Too many similarities not to ask, “Are you related to this guy?”

Figuerito was busy reattaching the magazine to the machine gun but glanced over. “
Him?
He was an outfielder. Brother, even in English I know that.”

“I don’t know . . . something about the ears, his chin, the whole look. Are you sure?”

“To an outfielder? My
abuela
would not have ordered me to chain a relative from the outfield in the cellar if Iván Bárbaro ever came back. He didn’t come back, but she kept that ugly picture, so I know what he looks like.”

On the back of the card, Tomlinson read
Born Pinar del Río, Cuba. Five feet four, two hundred and five pounds.
“A righty. Geezus, you’d need a backhoe to knock the guy off his pins. Uhh . . . speaking of pins . . .”

“I spit on his name, the thief, and my
mu-maw
cursed him. Before I was born, there were three motorcycles and three nice machine guns. One was painted gold, which, of course, matched these pretty words.” His finger traced the inscription
LOYAL BEYOND DEATH
. “I blame Iván Bárbaro for her dislike of baseball. For firing the maid, too, who, even as a youth, I knew had beautiful pink
chichis
.”

Tomlinson shrugged his understanding. “He stole them both. I get it.”

“No, just the motorcycle and the gun. Isn’t that enough? Gold’s my favorite color.”

After a last look at the baseball card, Tomlinson returned to the moment, while, under his feet, the floor vibrated with the sudden impact of a big man falling on cement.

Figuerito didn’t notice. He pulled the gun’s bolt back and let it snap into position.
Success.
Then bounced to his feet saying, “Hope I didn’t put the bullets in backwards. What would happen, you think? I don’t want to shoot myself. If I shoot myself, then it will be up to you to . . .” He froze, crouched, and thrust up a warning hand. “
Listen.
Did you hear that?”

From the echoing distance, through two steel doors, a man’s bellow reached them, then one familiar word in Russian.

Pizda.

Figgy turned to his friend. “The Russian’s calling you names again.” He pulled the dead bolt clear and pushed the steel grating open. “Brother, that makes one of us mad.”

•   •   •

S
OMEWHERE IN TH
E TUNNEL,
beyond the bedroom, furniture crashed. There came the thump of heavy flesh on concrete, of hollow bone hitting bone, and the clang of a steel door banging open . . . or slamming closed. No way to know.

Figueroa, with the machine gun at waist level, paused at the foot of his grandmother’s bed. Another steel door slammed . . . then silence. Woodsmoke carried an unfamiliar chemical odor. He sniffed the air, turned, and spoke silently to the dead woman:
Stop nagging. I’ll burn everything, just as promised.
Letters and movies and photos. Even the motorcycles. But
—he stepped back fearing a sign of protest—
I didn’t say when I’d burn them . . . did I?

Candle flames twitched, the woman lay motionless. He pressed ahead.

So . . . I’m going to use the motorcycles for a while. Probably drive to baseball games. Keep this nice gun, too—if it works.

The corpse did not budge.

Good. Finally, she approved.

Behind him, Tomlinson stopped, made the sign of the cross and whispered, “Safe passage, Imelda Casanova.”

Strange words, even for a left-handed pitcher, but at least he had stopped lecturing about the evils of shooting the Russian. Fear of losing his
pinga
, Figuerito suspected, had opened the man’s mind to new ideas.

Now all he had to do was kill the Russian, then figure out how to transport the dead giant and the bad
Santero
to the special place high above the sea. The mule was missing, but they had that nice Buick station wagon. Remove the chickens and there would be room enough.

Tomlinson, after waiting through more silence, said, “The Russian, he’s gone . . . or maybe he passed out. Did you smell his breath? Smirnoff, a hundred proof.”

“Drunk?”

“Yeah, and I’m envious. Figgy, this is batshit nuts. Hell, if he wants the letters, let him have them. They’re not worth dying for, and your grandmother is beyond caring.” His eyes drifted away from the bed. “We don’t even know if that gun works or not. Amigo”—Tomlinson took a big breath—“sometimes talking is best. Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.”

Strange as the man was, he was thoughtful and sometimes made sense. “You’re worried the bullets are in backwards.” Figuerito smiled. “That I’ll shoot myself. Brother, I’ve never had a friend as devoted as you. We’ll go together.”

He cracked the door a few inches, intending to sneak a look, then said, “Uh-oh!” and tried to squeeze through in a rush because he saw flames. The machine gun, with its wide magazine, snagged and the gun went off, a deafening chain of explosions that rang in the shortstop’s ears even after he’d stumbled into the hall. It took another second to realize he had to take his finger off the trigger to stop the weapon’s wild convulsions.

“Wow,” he said, looking back at Tomlinson. “This is some gun.”

The gringo, fingers in his ears, was yelling, “Holy Geezus shit! Have you lost your beaner freakin’ mind?” and other words in English, to which Figuerito nodded agreeably.

“That’s what I think. If the Russian’s out there, I’ve killed him by now. Come on.” He jogged toward the fire, which turned out to be only a blanket or bedsheet burning. No . . . it was a shower curtain. He stomped out the flames, then, turning toward the next room, saw that the door to his
abuela
’s shrine was open. In the doorway lay the giant.

Figuerito aimed the gun at him. “Bring the lamp,” he said but didn’t wait. When he was close enough, he nudged the Russian’s foot with his sneaker. Then nudged him hard enough that a conscious man would move. But the giant didn’t move.

Tomlinson arrived, carrying the lamp above his head. “Oh shit. Now what are we going to do?” Then said, “I know, I know—the cliff. Or . . . maybe he’s still alive.” He knelt by the Russian. “Christ . . . you shot him at least three times. See his legs? Help me roll him over. There have to be other wounds.”

“Shot him, yes, but I didn’t steal his pants. Check under his shirt. I wonder where they went.” Figuerito leaned to see into the shrine, which was busy with Santería offerings, and the crypts of unknown children his
abuela
had forbidden him to discuss or ever mention to outsiders.

“Those are the only bullet wounds,” Tomlinson said. “His burns . . . I don’t see anything that bad. But his head—such a weird angle. And at least one arm broken. Gad”—he moved the lantern a little—“a compound fracture. And that hand . . . his fingers aren’t much better.” He turned to Figuerito. “You didn’t kill him.”